Morning Glory
by Lady Silvamord
Summary: For the LJ drabble community 31days, one drabble per day. All characters, all pairings, from lovers to morning glory to lust, regret, and broken glass, and everything in between.
1. it don't go nowhere but damnation

For the 31days LJ community, one drabble per day. All characters, all pairings, for the theme of the day.

-

**May 1: it don't go nowhere but damnation**

Ozorne comes to view Kalasin as a sort of compensation, after a while. Maybe if he is kind enough to her, if he takes care of her and makes her happy, it would content the gods, just a little bit.

As he figures out later, there is kindness, and there is _kindness, _and maybe he shouldn't have exposed her to the latter.

The Emperor Mage strokes her hair back and pulls the covers up to her shoulders, noting the light shiver that passes through her sleeping body as his cool fingers touch her.

Maybe he was just headed for damnation, however hard he tried to prevent it.

-


	2. and it's one for the morning glory

**May 2: And it's one for the morning glory**

**-**

Cythera has always been an avid gardener, a lover of flowers of all sorts. Her particular favorite, though, is morning glory, for its delicate white blossoms and sweet yet mild scent. She places bouquets of them all over her bedchamber and delights at the way they glow orange in the sunrise.

She is dismayed to find that Gary has an allergy, but she doesn't remove the flowers immediately—after all, might he develop immunity after being exposed to them for a while?

Her theory doesn't prove correct, and Gary says to her once, sounding pained and with a handkerchief stuffed to his nose, couldn't she _please _move them outside?

Cythera sighs and can't help but feel a little disappointed, but that evening she transfers all her pots of flowers to a patch in Naxen's expansive gardens.

They look nice enough there, she tells herself, after she is finished planting them. In a few years, they would grow up the trellis and over the castle walls.

And that is one, lasting,victory for the morning glory.

-


	3. of lobsters and regurgitation

**May 3: about as useful as the ability to regurgitate whole lobsters **

**-**

Kalasin and Kaddar get into arguments over who's better equipped to deal with this or that responsibility for the country. Logic tells Kalasin that she shouldn't argue things like this with him; wouldn't it be better for her to sit back, enjoy the imperial life, and leave him to all the work?

Her pride tells her otherwise, and when they are at the last point of their debate over who gets to deal with the agriculture business, she finally blurts out, in one desperate attempt, that she eats more vegetables than him and therefore has more of a _feel _for agriculture than he will ever have.

Kaddar stares at her for a few moments, before stating disdainfully that her addiction to apples and fixation with which color grapes make the best wine, in this situation, is about as useful as the ability to regurgitate whole lobsters.

-


	4. dealing futures from a deck of swords

**May 4: **Dealing futures from a deck of swords

-

Maggur Rathausak had been collecting swords for a very, very long time. He must have had at least two hundred before he decided to put that particular interest aside for a while. Not just swords, though. Swords, daggers, knives, and even the Yamani kunai.

He had always had a hard time making decisions. One of the hardest decisions to make was how to kill a certain enemy. There were so many _possibilities_. So many ways a troublesome nemesis could be eliminated.

He came with a system, after a while. If he needed a decision made for him, he would pick a weapon for an answer. The sword signified beheading. The dagger meant that the enemy would be left in a rat-infested dungeon to rot for a while. Or that he would be thrown to the wolves. It all depended on Maggur's mood, really.

Knives meant that the prisoner would be burned alive. And the kunai meant that the prisoner would either be _donated _to the medical department, for experiments, or killed for entertainment, if Maggur was feeling particularly bored that evening.

Some would call it barbaric, he knew, but Maggur Rathausak didn't particularly care. Dealing futures from a deck of swords _was _one of his favorite things to do, no matter what anybody else had to say on the matter.

-


	5. moral of the story

**May 5: **moral of the story. AU, feat. Lianne of Conté, regarding Kalasin and Ozorne.

-

When she was little and just beginning to learn how to read, her tutors had given Lianne of Conté books of fairytales. Even though they had been taken away from her very soon, after she had grasped the basics, Lianne remembered them fondly. She remembered the tales of love and hope and the lessons presented in each story, which her tutors would discuss with her afterwards.

She liked reading. She didn't much like the discussing.

Lianne remembered that Kalasin had liked the fairytales, too, and had shelves upon shelves of them in her bedroom. One of Kally's tutors had asked their mama to take the books away, because they didn't want to foster any romantic notions in the little princesses' heads.

The books disappeared. Lianne still remembered them. Sometimes Kally snuck into the library and got the books anyway, for them to read in secret, after the candles were supposed to be blown out for the night.

Years later, when Lianne learns about what had happened to her elder sister and her Stormwing husband, she bites her lip, perplexed, and wonders how a former Emperor and Empress of Carthak could simply disappear into nowhere.

She waits, and wonders if Kally (nineteen now, or was it twenty—it has been so long since they've seen each other) still believes in the fairy tales she used to read so faithfully.

A letter, written on a roll of yellowed parchment, comes from Sarain one day, on the eve of Lianne's official betrothal ball. It's from Kally, safe in Sarain, and tells one of the strangest stories Lianne has ever heard, in a fairy tale or otherwise.

Much later that night, Lianne rereads the letter for about the tenth time, still amazed at its contents. When she falls asleep, clutching the familiar essence of her sister close to her chest—Lianne can smell the faint scent of Kally's citrus perfume on the parchment—she wonders about Kalasin's fairy tale. There is only one thing missing, the ever-dodgy moral of the story.

Lianne thinks about it, and frowns, because love didn't conquer all in Kalasin and Ozorne's story. After yet more tossing and turning, she decides that she doesn't really care. As long as Kally has her happily ever after,Lianne is content.

-


	6. masterful hand with whip or sword

**May 6: **"your masterful hand with whip or sword" feat. Faleron and Kalasin, _Empress _Lessons-verse, strong PG-13.

-

Faleron of King's Reach and Kalasin of Conté had a most unique teacher-student relationship, and once, after one of their lessons, Faleron praised her on how very imperial she was becoming.

"You don't fear to order me around, anymore," he murmured, twining a lock of her hair between his fingers. "Although I don't know why you're complacently letting me play the lord like this—"

Kally cut him off by pushing him down into the pillows and giving him a very passionate and rough kiss.

"Mmm. Oh, that's better."

"You're not too bad, yourself," Kally replied afterward, caressing his head as if he was a beloved pet. "When I watched you and my brother play at swords during your training, I had _no _idea—"

"Wait," he interrupted her (they interrupted each other often, despite the lessons on manners they had both learned at a very young age), "wait, since when did you watch Roald and I _play at swords, _as you so diplomatically put it?"

"Since I mastered sewing and was bored. You two were quite entertaining," was her implacable reply.

Faleron scowled.

Kally decided that maybe she should rectify things, and stroked his cheek with one finger. "Why are you upset?" she purred. "I _enjoyed _watching you use those masterful hands of yours in the art of the duel."

"You flattering little vixen."

"How kind of you."

"I know."

There was a long pause.

"Kally."

"Mmm?"

"You'd be good with a whip."

"I know."

"You…know."

"When you went riding today, the hostler complained about the whip being missing."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in.

"Oh, Kaddar is going to _love _you."

"So everybody tells me. Now, get over here."

-


	7. out of their trance into time again

**May 7: **"came out of their trance into time again," feat. Fazia.

-

Fazia is invited to spend Beltane at the Imperial Palace with her brother and Kalasin, and she accepts the request, although she wonders why she has even been invited. After all, Ozorne never placed as much importance on Beltane as he had on other holidays.

This year is different—the palace and gardens are decorated lavishly, and tiny yet elaborate balls of flame light up the outside and inside of the palace at night, so that it is never truly dark. Fazia is impressed, and for a little while she forgets why every Beltane night makes her feel so abandoned.

The feeling comes back, as it always does, and Fazia finds herself wandering around the hallways of the palace she had grown up in, looking around the rooms where she had spent her childhood. She finds the Hall of Mirrors in the west wing, completely by accident, and at first, wishes she hadn't. She is a little amazed at how she can still remember the mirror in front of where Gazanoi first kissed her.

She leaves the room quickly, and continues walking. After a while, she passes the widest window in the whole palace, overlooking the east gardens. There are two silhouettes visible from where she stands, and Fazia peers down at them, out of curiosity and the lack of anything better to do.

A girl stands on a bench, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of someone evidently much taller than she is. He rubs the small of her back, as she shows no intention of letting go. The man pulls away from her, but, laughing, she places one hand on either side of his face and gives him an enthusiastic kiss.

He looks uncomfortable, at first, but then he responds, very gently, wrapping a secure arm around her.

Fazia can't help but smile a little, before she leaves, feeling as if she is intruding on something. After all, it looks like a long time until the couple will come out of their trance, back into time, and she cannot help but envy them.

-


	8. her brother believes in hope

**May 8: **"she has a brother who believes in hope," feat. Conté siblings.

-

Lianne admits that she can be a pessimist, at times; her father tells her laughingly that it's a trait that is predominant in all the Conté women. Thayet gives him a deceptively mild look, but slices her fish a little violently, and Lianne covers her mouth with a napkin, trying not to laugh.

The princess thinks about it later, but finds a little problem with her father's logic. While Kalasin _does _have the tendency to expect the worse (and her slight paranoia problem, but Lianne understands that Kally doesn't like to talk about that; it makes her jumpy.)

Vania is too young to exhibit any behavioral problems whatsoever, even though the healers are getting a little worried because she hasn't even said her first word yet, they assure Jonathan and Thayet that it is nothing terribly serious—it will correct itself in time.

Lianne thinks that Roald is the only optimistic person in their family. Sometimes she asks him how he always manages to look on the bright side of things, no matter what, hoping to channel some wisdom.

Roald grins, and gives her a cryptic reply—_I believe in hope, Lianne, _and as she puzzles it out, her face turning red, he coughs to mask a chuckle and quietly turns to leave the library. She yells that he had _better _be prepared to explain himself at dinner, or else she'll tell Jasson who _really_ took his book on Marenite adventurers, and his responding laugh echoes through the library.

-


	9. and then hit him with a brick

**May 9: **"watch your chance and hit him with a brick," feat. Kalasin and Kaddar.

-

There are times when Kaddar _frustrates _Kalasin, so much that, after one of their notorious shouting matches, she retreats to her dressing room and fiddles with her pretty jars of cosmetics restlessly. The servants and Kaddar's squire tiptoe around her, careful not to irritate the Empress further.

Tonight, Kaddar knows that he can't infuriate her out of her mood, and decides to leave her alone, for a little while, at least, while he plans his counterattack.

Kalasin taps her slender finger against a shimmery blue bottle of eye shadow; occasionally casting dark looks at the door that separates them.

She wishes that the entire need for heirs wasn't such a pressing issue—then she could just watch her chance, ambush him, and then hit him with a nice solid brick, all with a clear conscience. It is a very tempting proposition, although Kalasin realizes that probably isn't the _wisest _thing to do.

Later that night, Kalasin tells him that he is very lucky that she is so kind to him, and, as he rubs the bruise (left as a direct result of the pillow she had thrown at him earlier), ruefully, he wonders how functional her logic really is.

-


	10. the night grows darker yet

**May 10: **"the night grows darker yet,"

-

Kalasin doesn't sleep for her first few weeks in Carthak. She doesn't like the bed and sharing it is even more awkward. She doesn't know if her new husband is a light sleeper or not, and she doesn't want to disturb him. So she lies on her back, scarcely daring to breathe, watching the eerie shadows dance along the walls as the night goes by.

She imagines that she hears things, from the balcony. She imagines that there are eyes, glowing and glaring, from the shadows. She sees faces that flit around in the darkness.

Terrified, she hides her face in the pillows, trying to regulate her breathing and prays to the Goddess that she will fall asleep without nightmares.

Ozorne knows more than he lets on, and once, he asks her, as gently as he knows how, if a small orb of light in the corner of their room will help her feel better.

Blushing and wishing she could _die, _Kalasin stammers a polite refusal.

Later, as the night grows darker yet, she holds her pillow close, trying to keep herself from shaking. After a while, an arm descends on her, wrapping around her waist and holding her close until her breathing regulates.

For the first time since Kalasin came here, she feels safe.

-


	11. spirit that denies all things

**May 11: **"I am the spirit that denieth all things," feat. Bronau of Rittevon. TC spoilers.

-

Bronau of Rittevon had been in denial once, just once.

Normally he had taken everything in stride—the debts, the political intricacies of Court life, the attempted wrath of betrayed and angry husbands and betrotheds. He accepted what could not be changed, and changed what he decided that he couldn't accept.

Nothing had ever unraveled for him; nothing had fallen apart, despite the threats and warnings of his rivals, which he had laughed off without a second thought.

But now, this is different. Mequen's bleeding body lies on the floor of the bedchamber, there is screaming all around him, havoc, chaos, the slash in his arm throbs so much that he can barely stand straight—

The little girl, Dovasary, lifts the bow and levels it at his heart. He sees the ice in her eyes, and his feet are leaden, and in that split second, Bronau denies it, denies that this could be happening to him—

There is damp warmth gushing out all over his chest, now, and before the world goes black, Bronau decides that he really doesn't like being in denial.

-


	12. open, locks, to the human's hand

**May 12: **"open, locks, to the human's hand," feat. Ozorne.

-

His parents have a personal library, large and expansive, filled wall to wall with books and more books. Ozorne has always been fascinated by the amounts of knowledge to be had in the hundreds of shelves and thousands of books, but when he gets older, his interest turns away from their main library.

There is a small door on the left wall, under the huge tapestry of Emperor Zekoi. It is rather unnoticeable among the lavish decoration of the rest of the library, but Ozorne notices it, and he is curious.

He mentions it to his father once. The Emperor replies vaguely that only magical volumes are kept inside there, some of them quite dangerous. He says no more.

Ozorne tries the door the next day. It is locked.

He corners some slaves, and after a bit of questioning, they tell him that they have no keys.

Ozorne ponders this, and pays more attention in magical applications the next day in class.

He learns a spell that can open any lock, and with a sense of triumph, he uses it on the door. Nothing happens.

Frustrated, he works on it some more, perfecting the spell and adding a few extra incantations to it. When he tries the door again, after almost three weeks of experimenting, it swings open, and Ozorne enters the room, eyes devouring the shelves and shelves of ancient volumes hungrily.

It is his first personal spell. As the years go by, he develops more, and they all do quite a bit more than rendering locks of any sort useless.

Sometimes he reads Fazia's diary with its help, and later that turns into an elaborate potion that detects lies, with only a thread of magic attached to a personal belonging.

His father finds out, and tells Ozorne, displeased, that princes do not lower themselves to lock-picking—it is not imperial.

Even though Ozorne, at sixteen, has a strong sense of his station, he has to disagree. He thinks that the art of discovering secrets is not only very useful, it is _necessary, _and this is exactly what will make him not only a worthy successor to his father—but the best Emperor Carthak will ever see.

-


	13. love passed into the house of lust

**May 13: **"love passed into the house of lust," feat. Kalasin and Kaddar.

-

It was a passage that she had found in a romance novel (that she would deny reading, later), and it made Kalasin think, something very remarkable. It wasn't that Kalasin was stupid; it was just that thinking was the type of thing she _avoided _by reading these types of books.

_Love passed into the house of lust…_

It evoked strange images—red silk bedsheets, animal furs, and seductive perfumes, soft words that turned into hard, passionate kisses…

Kalasin shook the thoughts out of her head, and tossed the book aside, before looking over at the study desk. It was covered in piles of parchment of varying heights—the fix-it-now pile, the can-wait-until-angry-councilors-start-hinting pile, the can-be-conveniently-lost pile, and the are-they-trying-to-make-us-laugh-ourselves-to-death pile.

She took one out of the fix-it-now section with a long-suffering sigh and began to write.

After a while, Kaddar entered, and she looked up at him, batting her eyelashes. "I'm a good Empress, see?"

"Oh, very much," he replied dryly. His eyes flickered toward the discarded book. "Harem Nights?" The Emperor kept his tone carefully blank, but the look in his eyes said it all.

"Stop that," Kalasin protested, blushing hard. "It's not…terribly risqué…or anything…just a little bit of light reading…"

"Of course." Kaddar tossed the book aside, and the bookmark fell out. Kalasin tried to keep from screaming her anger. "My mistake."

Biting back her reply, she gave him a sweet smile that looked more like a pained wince. "Not a problem."

They started working again, the silence occasionally broken by some request or another. At last, after Kalasin finished, she set her things aside and snuggled into the leather armchair comfortably. Kaddar kept scratching away on the parchment intently, shifting back and forth when the pain in his back got to be too much.

Deciding to take pity on him, Kalasin got up and began to rub his shoulders soothingly, infusing the warmth of her Gift into her hands. He tried to keep concentrating, but finally something resembling a satisfied purr left his throat as she kneaded the base of his shoulder blades.

Abandoning the document, Kaddar leaned back to brush a kiss against her wrist. "How I adore you."

"Mmm, keep talking."

"Flower, jewel, apple of my eye."

Kalasin smirked and continued rubbing. "That's better."

After a few minutes, he tilted his head up to look at her. "Kalasin?"

"Mmm?"

Kaddar fidgeted a little. He had never been good at full-out verbally _asking _her for this. "Would you come to my chamber tonight? About an hour after dinner?"

Blushing, she paused for a moment and continued to knead. "Um, yes. I'd…yes."

An awkward silence fell over them, until the clock tolled eight for dinner. Kaddar stood and stretched with a groan, before capturing Kalasin from behind, so that she fell against his chest with a startled squeak. Almost instinctively, she turned her face up to his, expecting a passionate kiss.

Instead, he brushed her hair with his hand gently, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "See you…later, I suppose."

Kaddar left her standing alone in the middle of their study, still feeling his fingers run through her hair.

_Love passed into the house of lust…_

She shook the thought away, violently. It didn't work the other way. It just didn't. It wouldn't, even if she wanted it to.

Kalasin walked out of the study, trying to remain composed. She needed a cold bath and a few ruthlessly tugged locks of hair, lovingly given from her maid. Those would probably be the only things that could properly jolt her back to her senses.

-


	14. this finely detailed insanity

**May 14: **"this finely detailed insanity you've come to expect," feat. Imajane of Rittevon.

-

Sometimes Imajane of Rittevon tries to tell herself that she's not insane. That's she's not like the rest of her family. _Especially _not like her crazy father. Uncle. Father-uncle. Or, as the records seemed to claim, both at the same time. Her tutors teach her the science of genealogy, but she doesn't understand how this could be possible.

Then again, with the Rittevons, as her mother used to tell her, anything was possible.

The strange thing is, even though she's perfectly normal, everybody expects that she's as insane as the rest of her family.

Her friends shrink away from her, sometimes, when she's angry or crying. As if they're worried that she's suddenly going to explode, combust, blow up into a million little pieces of Imajane all over the ballroom floor.

It makes her even angrier. Can't they _see _that she's not like the rest of them? That she's as sane as everybody else?

When Imajane gets older, she worries about herself. Sometimes little voices tell her what to do, so she does them. Later she agonizes over it, wondering if she's going to end up like her brothers and half-siblings and cousins. What if she becomes like her father-uncle? She doesn't want _that. _She sees how everyone shrinks away from him, how they fear him.

Imajane doesn't want to be hated and feared. She wants to be like how she remembered her mother. She wants to be adored. She wants to be pretty, for the women to envy her, to worship her, and for the men to love her.

But the fears are there, all the same, that when she gets older she'll be just like the rest of them. That the family curse _did _get passed on to her.

She tells Rubinyan that she's afraid. He understands. His mother was like that. She tells him she doesn't want children until she is _sure _that she won't pass on the line of insanity.

He smiles at her with pity.

Everybody expects her to be insane, still. She feels it as she gets older. Feels it in her blood. Hears it in the voices. Sees it in the eyes that follow her around from the shadows.

At night, when she cringes away from the darkness, hugging her pillow tightly, she blames the world. Everybody expected her to be insane. Now she is. It's their fault…all their fault…if it hadn't been for them, she would be _normal. _

When everything falls apart and the voices aren't a whisper anymore, they are screams calling for rebellion, screams that don't only echo in her head, which echo around the overrun palace, it becomes too much. She needs escape. It's too loud, too frightening, too much. She wants to scream. Wants to cry. She hasn't cried since her mother died.

Even in her current state of mind, she knows that she probably won't survive the jump, and doesn't care.

Imajane wants _silence, _for the first time in her life. She wants peace.

One jump. Eternal silence. Remain here, on the balcony, and let the voices possess her, for the rest of eternity.

A split second of pain, and a lifetime of peace.

She jumps into the still space of eternity.

-

Writing insane people is hard, but kind of fun at the same time. Poor Imajane. I just want to give her a big hug.


	15. a little taste of power

**May 15: **"a little taste of power and a shiny uniform," feat. Fazia Tasikhe and Gazanoi Iliniat.

-

Gazanoi Iliniat, prince of Siraj, becomes a Captain in the army that winter, after he finally completes the required additional intensive courses in combative magic required by Emperor Ozorne, for army officers. He is glad, of course, after all, this is the moment he has been working toward for the past ten years, ever since his first year at the Imperial University.

There are celebrations thrown in honor of the new class of graduating captains, but Gazanoi slips away from the crowded ballroom and many well-wishers as soon as he can. It isn't yet nine, but it's quite dark and the palace hallways are deserted, something that he is thankful for.

The gardens are a little chilly, something that he notices immediately, as soon as he enters. It is unusual for mid-November.

Gazanoi searches the gardens for a while, paying special attention to out-of-the-way benches or sequestered nooks near the topiaries or fountains. He finds nothing and nobody.

His last resort is the stables, and even before he's fully in there, he knows that she already is. It smells of horses, fresh hay, and the bushes of lavender that surround it. Fazia always claims that the stables _reek,_ and usually turns up her pretty little nose at going in there more than necessary. But Gazanoi also knows that it is her only hiding place, kept secret from the rest of the world.

He finds her up in the lofts, dozing. Gazanoi reaches out and touches her hand, and she wakes slowly, before blinking a few times until recognition hits. When it finally does, she squeals and tackles him, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek enthusiastically. "Oh, congratulations!"

"You notice _now_?" he asks her, grinning. "When I've been talking about it for the past two months?"

Fazia gives him a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

They are quiet for a few moments, and then she climbs off him, before dusting the hay off his new uniform. Her delicate fingers brush against the medal he received last summer, and she straightens it, looking up in time to see him roll his eyes at her. Fazia struggles with well-bred dismay for a few moments, before grinning. "I couldn't help it."

They sit across from each other, fingers linked against the hay. Fazia gazes at their hands, her brow furrowing in thought or worry, and now and then Gazanoi looks up at her, waiting for her to say something.

The silence becomes too much for him to bear, after a while. "What's wrong?" he asks her, tugging her hand lightly.

"Oh—nothing," she replies, a little startled by his question.

He is nothing if not persistent, and fixes her with a look until she begins to fidget. "Stop it."

"No. Not until you tell me what's on your mind, that is."

Fazia sighs, and gives him a rare scowl. Pulling her hands out of his, she turns away, looking out of the loft window at the full moon. "You're not going to become like _him, _are you?"

"…Pardon? Like _who, _may I ask?"

She is quiet for so long that he almost wonders if she hadn't heard him. When she finally speaks, she is so quiet that he has to strain to hear her. "Like my brother. You're not going to become like him, are you? You're not going to let yourself be changed by…by…a little taste of power and a sparkly uniform?"

Her voice rises, and Gazanoi, surprised, reaches out and takes her cool hands in his. "Of course not, Fazia. Why—"

"Because he was just like you, before. Before he became Emperor. Before he became all-powerful." He can hear the resentment in her voice, and that surprises him almost as much as her previous outburst. "Before he wanted everybody to worship him." She pauses, struggling with her voice. "Before that, I loved him."

At a rare loss for words, Gazanoi ignores propriety, and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She buries her head in the new silk of his dress tunic, and sniffles. His cheek presses against her deep chestnut hair, and the light purple veil that covers it.

"I promise that I won't change," he whispers to her. "Shiny uniform or not."

Fazia half-laughs, half-sobs into his neck. "Liar."

"You're right," he teases gently, before brushing the tears away from her cheeks. "I'll change for the better. I'll be kind and sensitive and nice to even the most irritating of people."

She smiles. "When you put it that way…"

They look up at the moon, and Fazia finally reaches out to put her hand on top of his. "I'm _so _proud of you."

Gazanoi says nothing, but gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, and they lean against each other, and look for their futures in the stars.

-


	16. infinite regret

**May 16: **"with infinite regret but negligible hesitation," feat. Ozorne and his terrible, horrible deeds.

-

Duke Ajay of Catha Heights had known Emperor Ozorne once, a long time back. His vanity searched for white in his hair every day, and tried to convince himself that it hadn't been _such _a long time ago.

They had taken the same courses at the Imperial University. They had the same magic, although Ajay had to admit that Ozorne's was about a hundred times more powerful. They had studied together for seven years, and upon Ozorne's ascension to the throne, he had given him a duchy on the western coast. More than Ajay had ever hoped for, what with his being the younger son of a younger son.

They had maintained their friendship, more or less. Ajay admired Ozorne, always had, but he had to admit that years of being Emperor had changed him. Sometimes he thought that Ozorne would benefit from a wife and children, and some semblance of a normal family and life. After all, he didn't really have those when he was growing up, but Ozorne didn't share the same ideas.

"It's too much trouble," he tells him, once, on one of his rare visits. "Rebels love to rally around wives and empresses. And sons are too fond of overthrowing their fathers for the throne for me to be comfortable with the mere thought of one."

Ajay discovers, after a while at Catha Heights, that the seaside holding isn't as much of a paradise, now, as it had been before.

Copper Isles raiders attack it frequently, robbing, looting, and setting fire to the towns. Ajay's little girl had almost been killed in a particularly violent raid, and it was only a timely arrow to the heart that saved his eldest child's life.

The raid in summer of 450 is the worst yet. The largest town has been destroyed; there are people dead from the hurrok attacks, there is no food, the crops have been burned, the water polluted…and the Copper Isles ships haven't left yet. They hold the area in siege.

Catha Heights is so far out that nobody knows of their plight, yet, and it will be a while until his people eat again, unless he does something about it.

Right now there is only one thing Ajay _can _do, and he does it. He writes to Ozorne, begging for his help. For his people, who have nothing to eat, since the stores at the castle had been plundered. For the children going thirsty because of the waste left in their few fresh streams and ponds.

It takes two days for a response, two agonizing days. Catha Heights has sent most of its soldiers down South, to help keep Ozorne's lands under control. They are vulnerable, completely vulnerable, to the pirates who remain on their coast, patrolling it to make sure that no fisherman can canoe his way out to get help. They are trapped, deadlocked, and knowing that there is no way out, no way to save his people, that hurts Ajay the most.

Ozorne's letter is long, written in the unfamiliar hand of a scribe. It reads that nobody can be spared, not the army, not the navy…not right now, what with the war raging in the conquered lands. Ozorne sends his regrets that he cannot offer any help, and writes that the only thing that they can do is wait the pirates out.

Ajay doesn't sleep that night, pacing, swearing bitterly. _Infinite regret, you say, my old friend, _he thinks to himself. _Infinite regret but, alas, negligible hesitation. _

"Mama, I'm thirsty," whimpers his daughter, in the next room. "I want peaches, mama…"

The duchess hushes the little girl quickly. "You'll have peaches and water soon, sweetling. Nice cold water, I promise."

After a few minutes, she comes out, cradling Ajin in her arms. She gives her husband a despairing look, wipes a sweaty lock of hair away from her forehead with a damp hand, and leaves, going to check the kitchens.

Ajay stares after her. _You regret, Ozorne? _

_You aren't the man I grew up with, and no amount of regretting is going to change that._

-


	17. the coldest eyes and cruelest hands

**May 17: **"the coldest eyes and the cruelest hands," feat. Kalasin, Ozorne, and councilors.

-

Kalasin doesn't fear _people. _She fears illusions and shadows and the dark. She fears the thought of wanton cruelty and unnecessary suffering.

She hasn't met a person, yet, that she is scared of. Some of her father's and Ozorne's councilors are intimidating (more intimidating than they need to be, when meeting a fourteen-year-old girl, she thinks), but they aren't truly scary. What she doesn't like about some of them is their eyes. They smile, but their eyes are so _cold _and unfeeling.

Sometimes, when she is accompanying Ozorne to a Council meeting, she stares at the heavy oak table, and sees the hands of these men twisting in thought. Some of them tap out patterns, warning, impatient, on the surface. A few of them gouge their fingernails into the side of the table when they are particularly frustrated. When there is a brief break, and the slaves come in to serve them cold drinks—wine for the men, and lemonade for Kalasin, which she resents—she sees how those esteemed men treat them.

She only imagines how they treat their personal slaves, at home, and winces at the very thought.

One councilor, an esteemed duke, mentions sending a division of new recruits out to distract the Yamani army, while two other battalions attacked the Yamanis from opposite sides. Another murmurs lazily that it seems like a waste of soldiers.

The duke shrugs, before saying that they are only boys. It would be no big loss. He smiles with his cold eyes, and Kalasin tries not to show her disgust.

Ozorne asks her what she thinks of his councilors when they are safely back in their rooms. His tone is neutral, and Kalasin struggles between telling him the truth or not.

"I hate them," she says, finally. "I hate them because they're cold and cruel and _heartless, _and how could they even _think _of sacrificing a division like that? It's—"

Ozorne cuts her off, gently. "It's necessary. We are in a war."

She turns her face away from him.

Sighing, he takes the girl in his arms and pulls her closer. "You think with your heart, not your head."

Kalasin blinks. Ozorne thinks he has actually had an impact on her until she speaks again. "I'd rather _everybody _think with their heart than be like them."

He struggles with his thoughts for a moment, wondering how to deal with her. "You'll understand someday," he tells her, allowing himself the liberty of stroking her soft hair. "I did."

"No," she replies stubbornly. In response to the question in his eyes, she looks up at him. "You aren't cold and you aren't cruel. Not like that. Never."

Ozorne isn't sure whether it's a question or not, so he lets it rest, and supposes that his little Kalasin will just have to learn these lessons the hard way.

-


	18. she is particular about her bedchambers

**May 18: **"Madame was very particular about her bedchambers," feat. Fazia Tasikhe.

-

Fazia is particular about her household, something she had learned from her mother. She had observed the strict procedures of running the vast Imperial Palace, and stored all of the knowledge away in a corner of her mind, so that it could be used, someday.

When Gazanoi asks her to marry him, one of his betrothal gifts to her is a new villa in the country. She remembers walking into it, the walls white and polished, blank, like paper begging to be written on. The airy, spacious rooms have no furniture, but Fazia doesn't mind much.

Gazanoi winces. "I apologize for the condition. The interior was supposed to be finished already, but—"

Fazia cuts him off, resting her small hand on the bare walls. "It's all right. Actually…" she hesitates, the beginning of an idea forming in her head.

"What is it?"

"Could I decorate it? Myself?" she asks, the words bubbling out of her in excitement.

The prince stares at her as if she has bumped her head against something very solid and heavy. "You want to decorate our entire house."

Fazia nods enthusiastically.

Gazanoi thinks it over for a moment, and then sighs. It is an insane idea, in his estimation, but he has long since learned that there is no arguing with Fazia over matters like these. "All right, then."

The princess beams, and flings her arms around him with a grateful kiss.

It takes her the better part of a year to finish the villa. Ozorne points out that it could have been done in about two months' time, if she hadn't insisted on doing it herself. Fazia shrugs, and asks him his opinion on her two shades of yellow and cream for the guest bedroom

At last, all she has left to do is their bedchamber. It is the only place in the house that still has white walls. Gazanoi tells her, playfully, to stop procrastinating and get it over with. "After all, we can always change it later if we get tired of it."

Fazia squares her shoulders and retorts that she intends to decorate it so well that they would _never _get tired of it. She realizes the wisdom in his words, though, and settles down that evening, to think about it. The thing is, the bedchamber is one of the most important rooms in the house. It's where they could be alone, where they could get away from politics and the army and what was happening to their country. It was their escape.

She has always been particular about bedchambers. When she was younger, she would ask her parents for at least three changes of décor in one year. Fazia is very picky about the colors, the fabrics, the patterns, and the general atmosphere that it had, and besides, she wants to give their home and married life an auspicious start.

She decides that it had to be done; after all, there will be no wedding until their home is finished. So she starts work on it the next morning.

She settles on deep cream for the main wall color, with borders of crimson and gold near the floor and ceiling. Fazia knows she has to do something for the ceiling itself—it looks so plain. She mentions it to Gazanoi that evening. He pokes a side of chicken thoughtfully, before telling her about the geometric patterns in all of the colors of the rainbows that decorate his parents' bedchamber in the palace in Siraj, where he had grown up.

"You don't have to do that, though," he tells her hastily. "It'll take you too long."

Fazia smiles at him sweetly. "Don't worry, my lord. Now, eat your chicken."

It is a few weeks before she asks that they visit the villa again, together, even though she is there almost every day. Gazanoi is exhausted, having just returned from a campaign in the far East, but the enthusiasm in his betrothed's eyes is more than enough to convince him.

She insists on covering his eyes as she guides him through the house, and, to his dismay, leads him into desks, chairs, and sofas so often that he feels a growing bruise around his hip region.

Fazia finally lets go of him as soon as they enter another room. He can _feel _the difference in this one. It seems cooler, somehow, and smells strongly of morning glory. "Open your eyes!" she squeals, the girlish excitement in her voice overpowering the princess.

Gazanoi opens them, and can't believe his eyes. The walls are painted in their favorite colors, and the large, ornate bed is covered with several comforters in silk and crushed velvet, all in varying shades of red and white. The floors are cool marble, and a lush peach-colored rug is near the bed. There is more, countless more, colors and shapes and designs and pretty flowers and mirrors edged in gold, but right now, the ceiling takes up most of his attention.

An explosion of lines and patterns in every color of the rainbow greets him, and for a moment, Gazanoi can swear that he is back home, lying on his parents' bed, listening to his mother tell him soft stories about Elkallatum, her homeland.

He is broken out of his reverie when Fazia approaches him, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Do you like it?" she inquires anxiously. "I wasn't sure if you'd like peach for the rug, but I have more, in different colors, in case—"

He cuts her off with a gentle kiss. "I love it," he assures her. "The rest of the house is lovely, too, but I think that this room is my favorite, by far."

Fazia gives him a lopsided smile. "I wanted it to be perfect. I _told _you I'm particular about my bedchambers."

"I don't mind."

They walk over to the large window that overlooks the garden and roses and willow trees and the pond. Fazia nestles against him, content. "I used to daydream about a future like this. I just want to hold every single moment of this and make it last _forever, _somehow."

Gazanoi strokes her hair. "There's no need. We have the rest of our lives together, after all."

Her hand finds his, and they watch the sun set over the desert. The first of many sunsets to come.

-

This makes me so sad. They had expected to grow to old age together, and see their children married, and look what happened. It just goes to show that sometimes, life doesn't work out the way you think it will.

(for those who don't know, Gazanoi Iliniat was killed in combat when Kaddar was eleven.)

-proud shipper of Fazia/Gazanoi-


	19. the reflection in the broken glass

**May 19: **"who's reflected in the broken glass?" feat. Ozorne Tasikhe.

-

Flying is awkward at first; he finds it hard to flap his heavy, unwieldy metal wings. He gets used to it after a day or so, but the hunger that gnaws at his stomach as he flies toward the capital is even worse. King Jokhun's Stormwings scare away a pride of lions from a freshly killed antelope, and tear at the red meat ravenously. Food has been scarce, recently.

Ozorne looks away, disgusted by the sounds of flesh being torn and ripped into, and the sight of blood soaked into steel talons and staining sharp teeth. The crunch of bone seems to echo around the dark desert. Determinedly ignoring the pangs, he finds a niche under a crumbling statue of an Elkallatum priestess, and tries to rest.

By the end of the fourth day, he is starving. The rest have found a dead zebra, and ignoring them as they feast becomes harder by the moment.

It is late night when he flutters out from under his shelter weakly. There is still some meat left, clinging to the remnants of the bones. Ozorne suddenly remembers the elegantly prepared dishes at the Imperial Palace, the golden plates and roasted antelope, the grilled poultry, the fried salmon that Kalasin was so fond of, and the rich wine, which was the red of blood.

The Emperor Mage marvels at how far he has fallen as he looks again at the ragged flesh. As he bends down with difficulty, to bite into the meat, he almost forgets what he had eaten—before—as he satisfies his hunger in the leftover zebra.

When Kalasin sees him again, she drops the glass she had been holding, shocked, and staggers back, her eyes wide. It takes her a few moments to recover, and when she does, she rushes forward and flings her arms around him, rags, filth, and cruel talons forgotten. She starts crying, and manages to sob out that she is sorry, _so _sorry.

Ozorne finds that he can't disentangle her as easily as he could before, and finally coaxes her into letting him go. She does so reluctantly, as if afraid that he'll fly away or be forced to turn into something else, if she doesn't protect him.

She understands that he doesn't want to talk, and she isn't quite capable of speech yet, either. Kalasin just sits next to him on the balcony, as it starts to drizzle lightly, with one arm wrapped around him.

Ozorne looks at the shattered pieces of glass dully, as it continues to rain. For a few moments, he isn't sure who the reflection in the broken glass is.

-


	20. the right hand of vengeance

**May 20: **"I am the right hand of vengeance," feat. Josiane of the Copper Isles.

-

What did her mother in, really, more than the axe that beheaded her, was the fact that she couldn't get revenge on her enemies.

Maybe she just didn't want to. Josiane remembers her mother as being a very calm, serene woman, with an air of peace. When she spoke, there was a quiet surety to her words, as if she was predicting the future. And, even at her age, Josiane knew that if her mother thought that her destiny was to die before her time, she would do nothing to change it.

After her mother died, Josiane vowed to herself that she would never let anyone get the better of her like that. If anybody even dared to slight her, to torment her as they tormented her cousin-sister Imajane, or to whisper about her in the shadows, until their traitorous murmurings swirled around her, wrapping her too tight in intrigue and death and a drop of poison in a glass of wine, they would pay for it in their own blood.

They fight her, they don't like her, don't accept her for her Gallan-Tortallan blood; they whisper that she's as insane as Imajane's side of the family. They don't want another like her near the throne.

Josiane has survived seventeen assassination attempts, ranging from poison in her wine and food, to a deadly acid coated on her jewelry and inside her dresses, even a treacherous nursemaid who tried to stifle her with a pillow when she was nine years old.

All of them died afterward, mysteriously, gruesomely, and Josiane listens to the royal officials speak about the horrible fate of one of the realm's most important Dukes, who was murdered in his bed from a dagger to the heart, with no expression on her pretty face.

Maybe it is wrong, but she doesn't really care. If they hurt her, she will exact her vengeance.

She thinks about her peaceful, quiet mother, and a little part of Josiane whispers that she would not have approved. The princess shakes the thought away.

She is willing to be the right hand of vengeance, if only she can live. If she can live and be great, and be remembered forever in the annals of history. It is a small price to pay for her eventual and inevitable success.

-


	21. do wrong in the hope that right may come

**May 21: **"I choose to do wrong in the hope that right might come," feat. Kalasin and Lindhall.

-

"I don't understand," Kalasin says, a frown knitting her brow. "It doesn't make any sense."

Lindhall brushes a lock of thin blonde hair out of his eyes, and sighs at his confused monarch. "Empress, if I may speak plainly, you agree that slavery is wrong."

It is a statement, not a question, but Kalasin looks around his study warily, out of habit. "Yes," she says at last, lifting her chin. "It _is_ wrong. But smuggling them out of the country is _worse _wrong, because…"

"Because?" he challenges the girl gently.

"Because you're defying my husband. Because you're defying the oldest laws in the country."

Lindhall hears the loyalty in her voice when she talks about Ozorne, and the slight waver in her entire demeanor when she mentions Carthak's laws, and pities her, a little. The professor reaches out and brushes his fingers against the line of her jaw lightly. "All right. I understand where you're coming from."

Kalasin gives him a small smile. "Thank you. Could you explain what you said to me earlier—simply?"

"I choose to do wrong in the hope that right might come," he quotes again. "I choose to smuggle the slaves out of the country, in the hope that someday, this country will see that the practice of slavery is outdated and cruel. Wrong."

"Oh," she replies sheepishly. "I understand."

Later, as she gets ready to go to sleep, Kalasin remembers what Lindhall had said, and sighs softly. She knows it's dangerous, but can't help wishing that she was brave enough to help right come to Carthak, as well.

-


	22. the gate of broken seals

**May 22: **"in the gate of broken seals," feat. Jasson of Conté.

-

All of Jasson's siblings like animals well enough. Roald is especially good with cats, although he had a few sparrows that followed him about loyally, for a time. Kalasin loves dogs with a passion, and often skips the end of sewing lessons to sneak down to the kennels and await the return of Lord Wyldon's dogs from the hunt. He gives her a puppy for her eleventh birthday. She names him Remus.

Lianne loves horses, and learned to ride at an earlier age than the rest of her siblings. She said, once, that she should have been born with horse magic, instead of the Conté healing Gift.

Liam and Vania like frogs, tadpoles, bugs, slugs, and other squishy things, and often spend hours in the gardens after the rain, looking for animals to poke and play with.

But Jasson's animal interest is the strangest of all. Jasson loves seals.

Ever since his first visit to Pirate's Swoop, in which their boat had been visited by a group of seals, who honked at them and gave whiskery smiles, Jasson has adored them. He commissions Volney Rain to draw him countless pictures of seals. He follows the Wildmage around, asking her what seals think about. He gets Maude to give him little baskets of food, and takes Roald out to the beach, where they share their picnic and talk about the wide, wide ocean. Jasson always saves a few of his kippers, to take out to the rocks, Roald holding him securely, while he dangles them over the water and waits for the seals to come and eat. They beam at him afterwards, and Jasson is content.

Another odd thing about Jasson is that he never had nightmares before the age of ten. He never _had _any more nightmares after the age of twelve. But Jasson always will remember his first nightmare. It was the worst he ever had.

There were seals, strewn all over the beach, dead seals, bleeding seals, silent seals, who didn't smile anymore. Some of them were broken—cut in half.

He wakes up shivering, sweating, and doesn't sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, he writes to Daine, who is at Pirate's Swoop. She writes back, assuring him that the seals are most definitely all right. Jasson is relieved, and Lianne teases him, but he isn't bothered as much as usual. There aren't any gates of broken seals, and for that, he is grateful.

**-**


	23. and he brings up the Templars

**May 23: **"sooner or later he brings up the Templars," feat. Kalasin and Kaddar.

-

It's summer and hot, and that means only one thing for the imperial couple: vacation. They spend it at Radzyn Keep, as usual, out on the white sand beaches and splashing around in the big blue sea. Afterward, they find a rocky outcrop and nestle into it, watching the sunset in a blazing glory of red on the waves.

This is their cue to start their usual evening discussion about things intelligent and not so intelligent. It starts with the hairstyles favored by each of their councilors, meanders toward the king of Galla and his infamous extramarital affairs ("I'll warn you now, Kaddar, if you ever take up with the milkmaid…"), and then they start giggling over her threats some more, and Kalasin almost falls off her rock.

Kaddar mentions something to her, offhandedly, about a cloud looking like a violin, and she points out a flute-shaped rock. "I think we have music on our minds," she says, later. "I'm glad it's the instrumental variety, though. I've gotten tired of listening to Duke Samjan sing that old song, over and over again."

"It's from the Templars," Kaddar says automatically.

She gives him a playful nudge. "I knew you would bring that up sooner or later. Honestly, I don't understand what you Carthakis see in the Templars."

"Take it back."

"No. They're so _nasally._"

He rolls his eyes at her. "They're a traditional group of entertainers that stretch back _years. _I can't believe you called them _nasally._"

"If the shoe fits—"

Kaddar leans back on his rock. "Their voices define a generation. Generations, actually," he adds, as an afterthought.

They argue about the Templars some more, until the moon is high in the night sky. "Truce?" she asks him, at last, after they finish staring each other down after the latest insult and counter-insult.

"I shouldn't accept a truce with someone so far beneath me that she doesn't appreciate the music of the Templars."

Kalasin is reduced to using her womanly wiles on him, and flutters her eyelashes flirtatiously. "I'll make it worth your while," she coaxes.

Kaddar sighs. "Cheater."

"Just give up." She strokes his arm. "Do I have to make you?"

_Oh yes. _He struggles to keep his mouth shut, and then gives her a resentful look.

"If you don't accept my truce…" Kalasin considers for a moment. "Well, use your imagination. You're lucky that I'm even willing to meet you halfway, in any issue concerning the Templars."

"You are the most _frustrating _woman I've ever met. You'll never get me to stop loving the Templars."

Kalasin smirks slightly, and turns away. "No sex for you tonight, then."

Kaddar gapes. "That's _blackmail._"

"I know."

"The _worst _kind."

"Isn't it?"

They stare each other down for a few moments. Kaddar sighs. "This is wrong on so many levels."

"Forget _all_ about the Templars."

"Fine." _Until tomorrow, that is. _"Shall we head inside?"

"Of course."

As they walk into the castle, she tilts her head to the side and smiles at him. "Now that you're over the Templars, I need to tell you about the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. _Much _better."

And the vicious cycle continues.

-

I'm with Kally on this one. The Templars are a pretty good band, yeah, but they're not that great. Heh. Kalasin and Kaddar remind me of a college couple arguing the merits of this band or that. They're so cute. -huggles them-


	24. discretion is not the same as lying

**May 24: **"Discretion, I said, was not the same as lying," feat. Roald and Kally, and a cameo by Kaddar.

-

They are in the kitchens after dark again, when the moon is high in the night sky and all the candles are supposed to be blown out. It is quiet and deserted, and Kally realizes, as she holds Roald's hand, that she would probably be afraid, if he wasn't here, and if he wasn't lighting their way with an orb of blue fire.

The kitchens after dark are a wonderful place to be, with cooling cakes, desserts of every sort imaginable, leftovers from dinner, chilling cordials and wines, ("Roald, wine! I want it!" "No, Kally, it's for the older people.") ice cream, the next morning's breakfast, and fresh sliced fruit of every variety.

After they are finished, Roald and Kally look around the kitchens in despair. Kally realizes first that they have put too large of a dent in the food. "What're we going to _do_?" she wails.

Roald shushes her. "Kally! You don't want the servants to wake up, do you?"

Kally looks around warily, and shakes her head.

Roald takes her by the hand, and leads her under a table. "They're going to be upset, tomorrow morning," he warns his little sister, because this isn't the first time this has happened to them. "We have to be discreet about it."

"Discreet?"

"Not suspicious. Keep it a secret. If anyone asks, pretend you don't know what they're talking about. You know, _discreet._"

Kally blinks. "Isn't that lying?"

Roald sighs. "Kally," he tells her. "Discretion is not the same as lying. Remember that."

She doesn't really understand, but nods anyway, and they go back to their room.

Later in life, Kalasin applies the same principle in her work as Empress. After one particular incident with her and Kaddar in that little niche in the kitchens, and the broken coffee table and half-eaten vanilla cake, she drags him out, ignoring his moral little protests, just as Roald had done to her all those years ago.

"Discretion is _not _the same as lying," she tells him, when they are safely in their rooms. Remember that."

"I will," he says wryly. "Wise words, there. Who taught them to you?"

Kalasin smiles. "A very wise man."

-


	25. if the gods must take, let them take all

**May 25: **"if the gods must take, she thought, let them take all," feat. Kalasin Tasikhe.

-

The parchment stared her in the face, all crisp white, curled at the edges, with ornate black writing that she wouldn't have understood five and a half years earlier. She understands it now, of course, but wishes that she didn't.

For the first time in a _long _while, Kalasin wishes that she were a fourteen-year-old again. That she didn't have to _do _this. That she could lean on Ozorne, let him make the decisions, trust him to do what was right for her.

The eldest councilor clears his throat softly, and his gnarled hand rests on the top of the parchment. "Lady Kalasin."

She looks down at the floor, refusing to acknowledge the address.

"Lady Kalasin, do you understand the contents of this document?"

She nods stiffly.

"By signing here, you agree that your marriage with the former Emperor of Carthak, Ozorne Tasikhe, is annulled. You will no longer be Empress. For diplomatic reasons, and the terms agreed to upon your marriage, you will not be allowed to return to Tortall. Instead, you may remain, in essence, a ward of the Imperial House, if His Imperial Majesty allows it. You will be given a household and an allowance."

The councilor pauses, letting it sink in. Kalasin stares at the paper numbly. _It can't be, he's not dead, he's not gone, he's just a Stormwing and they don't _know _if the arrow really hit him, they haven't found a body yet_—

Another one says, firmly, "The former Emperor is dead, my lady. It has been proved. If you do not sign, you will be submitting to these terms in any case, under Carthaki law."

She's heard the same story for the past two and a half months. She knows the rest. "Fine."

Her voice is somewhat dead, and there is silence in the council room for a few moments. "You agree?"

Kalasin nods firmly, but she's shaking inside, and her hands tremble as she takes the quill handed to her and dips it into the inkpot. _It's not fair, _someone much younger says in her mind. _They took enough from me. Why do they have to take more?_

She refuses to listen to it, as she lowers the quill to the parchment. _If the gods must take, let them take all. _

"Wait." His voice shatters the silence in the room, and all of them turn toward the corner where the Emperor sits. He has been silent until now—he knows the laws. But now he rises and walks toward the small table near the window. Ignoring the councilors, he nods toward Kalasin. "My lady, if I may have a word?"

It's a command, although a very politely worded one. _Typical Kaddar, _she thinks dully as he guides her toward the other side of the room, and into a small antechamber.

They look into each other's eyes for a few moments, and Kalasin remembers that they were friends. Maybe they still are. She doesn't know. Not many people, save for her three oldest friends, want to have anything to do with the Empress with a Stormwing for a husband.

He moves closer, puts an arm around her shoulders, just like he used to, before. "Are you all right, Kally?"

She manages a cracked laugh. "I've been better."

Kaddar holds her for a few moments, and he reminds her of Roald even more, now. They are silent. When he finally speaks, it's something she hardly expects to hear. "Marry me, Kally."

Her reaction is pure shock reflex; she puts one small hand on his chest and tries to push him away from her. "No!" But Kaddar is stronger, taller, and has more balance; easily, he places one arm around her waist and holds her still, but she struggles, anyway. One of her friends had told her that he'd probably ask this, but she hadn't believed her. "I thought you were above that," she whispers.

"Kally, _listen,_" he tells her firmly, and actually shakes her a little to get her attention. "I know you're hurt. I know the gods took something away from you that you…" he pauses. "That you loved. Dearly. But that doesn't mean you can throw away the rest of your life just because of that. Just because the gods took one thing away doesn't mean that they have to take all."

She is silent, and he continues, lowering his voice a little, coaxing. "I need you. I need an Empress. You have the experience, and…" Kaddar rubs his neck, and she can tell how uncomfortable he is. It's mutual. "I don't expect to take Ozorne's place."

"Why me?" she asks, in a small voice. After the Yamani princess who had been his betrothed died, just a few months ago, she thought that he would have no problem securing another alliance in another princess from the same country.

Kaddar shrugs. ''I've known you for a long time. I've seen you grow up. I know that you'll make a good queen—for me, and for the nation. You can help rebuild. Together, we can _change _things."

She blinks away sudden tears. "I don't know."

"Think about it," he tells her softly. "I'll tell everybody to leave you alone for a while." Kaddar squeezes her limp hand as he slips out, and she can see the worry in his eyes.

Kaddar leaves her alone, standing by the windowsill and looking out over the river, but she's gotten used to being alone, since Ozorne left.

Kalasin gazes down at the river some more, and wishes that she could see her destiny in its liquid blue depths.

-


	26. come only to sleep, come only to dream

**May 26: **"I come only to sleep, I come only to dream," feat. Kalasin and Kaddar.

-

Kaddar slept better before he got married. Not only did he have a whole bed and set of blankets to himself, but also, above all, he didn't dream about strange things. His dreams were average, mundane, boring, and that was the way he liked it.

But after he married Kalasin, his dreams changed, and not for the better. Once, he dreamed that she was chasing him through a field full of daffodils, and he was running away, toward a river. She had flung herself at him, and they had fallen to the flower-covered ground, giggling away. Then, she kissed him, and he kissed back, and they just lay there, among the daffodils.

Kaddar woke up the next day feeling mildly nauseated.

As the months passed, his dreams became even more disturbing. Once, he dreamed that she was giving him a lap dance. And they were both enjoying it. Kaddar woke up sweating and thinking that this _needed _to stop, now.

Some dreams were so very romantic that Kaddar found himself looking at Kalasin during Council meetings and noting how very full and perfect and kissable her lips were. Sometimes he watched her laugh, and found himself thinking about how he could coax that kind of happiness out of her.

He was thoroughly tired of it. Night was for _sleeping, _not for thoughts and fantasies and dreams about _her. _She plagued him enough during the day.

To his horror, after a while, he found himself looking forward to his dreams. He found himself looking forward to dream-kissing her, to feeling her arms wrap around his neck, to see her smile. In one of his dreams, he discovered that she liked jasmine.

For her birthday, Kaddar gave her a bouquet of roses and jasmine. Kalasin squealed and cooed and giggled and hugged him, their usual rivalry forgotten.

Kaddar screwed up his courage, wondering if all these dreams had made him totally and completely _insane, _and kissed her the way her dream-self liked it. She squeaked, startled, and almost fell into the fountain, but kissed him back, wondering what on earth had _taken _him so long.

And the rest was history.

-


	27. I am the lover whom you will betray

**May 27: **"I am the lover whom you will betray," feat. Delia of Eldorne and Jonathan of Conté.

-

Delia surveys the prince through lowered eyelashes, as he dances with Lady Cythera, and supposes that he's quite handsome, in the conventional sense, at least. Coal-black hair that looked as soft and shiny as if it was a little girl's, piercing blue eyes…he already has most of her friends panting after him, she thinks, a little scornfully.

She flutters her fan, and determines that she will _not _join their ranks. After all, that would give him some measure of power over her, and _that _wouldn't do her any good. She intends to have the upper hand in this relationship.

_Well, _she amends; _I will have the upper hand in this relationship when there _is _a relationship. _

Making her decision, she stands and begins to walk toward the prince, taking delicate and measured steps. His eyes meet hers, and Delia gives him a small smile. He excuses himself from his group of friends, and starts toward her.

Satisfied, Delia leans against the windowsill, waiting. _Hello, Prince Jonathan. Pleased to meet you. After all, you are the lover whom I intend to betray._

-


	28. one does not say must to princes

**May 28: **"one does not say 'must' to princes," feat. Jasson and Roald of Conté.

-

Prince Jasson of Conté is in a tree.

More accurately, his parrot is in the tree, perched on the uppermost branch, and cawing away in wicked delight. Jasson himself is clinging to one of the middle branches, struggling to climb the rest of the way up.

Roald watches with a mix of amusement and disapproval as his little brother tries to find a secure foothold and pull himself up to the next branch. He isn't really worried; Jasson is the most adventurous in their family, and his father had likened him to a cat many times—he always landed on his feet.

"Jasson," he calls, up into the tree's leafy heights. "Come down. You'll never be able to reach Henry. Come with me, and we'll get the Wildmage to coax him down. Or you can give him your apple as a lure." Jasson hated apples.

The leaves rustle. "I want to get Henry VIII down _myself!_"

"Jasson—"

"Daine had to fetch him the last five times he got out of his cage, and _I'm _his big brother, and _I _need to teach him that he can't do that anymore—"

"Jasson!"

The tirade stops, and Roald catches sight of a pair of blue eyes glaring down at him. "What? I almost got him, Ro!"

"Jasson," he coaxes. "You must come down, now, before Mother or one of your nursemaids sees you up there, and you know what happened last time."

Jasson contemplates this for a few moments. "Last time was pretty funny."

"Yes, well, you remember that you were the only one who thought so."

"No, _you _thought so too," the little prince corrects. "You, and Vania, and Lianne, and Liam, and Kally would have, too…"

Roald sighs. "Jasson, you _must _come down."

The leaves shake angrily, and Henry VIII caws, sensing a disturbance. "One does not say must to princes!" he calls down haughtily, and almost falls off his branch.

"Jasson, have you been reading Shakespeare lately?"

"_No," _he mutters. "I don't like _any _Scanrans, even ones who write big books."

Roald coughs to mask a chuckle. "Jasson, I'm coming up to get you," he threatens playfully. "Or I'll send Liam to do it, and that would be even worse."

There is a muffled sound of protest, and the leaves rustle once more as the prince jumps down. He has leaves and twigs in his hair and tunic. "No need," he says, suddenly meek.

Roald reaches out and ruffles his brother's hair. "I said _must _to a prince, and I have to say, I'm alive and intact."

Jasson peers up at him. "Only because I like you."

"Ah."

"What're we going to do about Henry VIII?"

"He'll come down, eventually. He always does."

"So can I give him my apple?"

Roald struggles with himself for a few moments. "Of course."

Jasson grins, and Roald matches it with an almost-identical reflection.

-


	29. and the white light can be broken

**May 29: **"and the white light can be broken," feat. Ozorne and Kalasin.

-

The color white had always seemed to define Ozorne Tasikhe's life, oddly enough.

White was the color of her wedding dress, five different shades of white.

White was the color of her cheeks, the first time they had met, white with nervousness.

Her nightgowns were always plain white cotton shifts, until she turned sixteen and chose to trade those in for darker colors and almost seductive silks.

She laughed when he found the first strand of white in his hair, and assured him that she would _never _see him as old.

She wore a white veil over her hair, in mourning, when he turned into a Stormwing, even though he told her that she really didn't have to.

Kalasin loved the night sky, and he wove her silvery-white strands of moonlight that dispersed on the wind as she reached out to touch them.

White was the color of the walls in their small home in Sarain. Ozorne didn't like them, but they couldn't afford to have them painted just yet, and besides, Kalasin didn't seem to mind them too much.

White is the color of their first child's eyes. Ozorne wipes away Kalasin's tears as she realizes that her daughter will never see blue skies or green grass, or the colorful plumage of her father's birds, but they both understand that it's the price to pay for bargaining with gods.

White is the color of the cloth they arrange around Kalasin's body, fifteen years later, and it is snowing when they bury her.

White is the color of the flowers Ozorne and his two daughters leave at her grave every morning.

White is the color of his first daughter's wedding dress, and Ozorne feels Kalasin's absence as he stands by her side.

Ozorne Tasikhe decides that he hates the color white.

-


	30. the dose makes the poison

**May 30: **"the dose makes the poison," feat. Kalasin and Faleron.

-

It wasn't _her _fault, not really, nor was it his. Faleron knew that he could quite easily blame her, because she was the one who had so coyly asked for empress lessons.

Common sense told him to say no, of course, because one simply did not deflower the Princess Royal two years before her marriage. It just wasn't done.

But Kalasin looked at him and fluttered her eyelashes and given him an imploring look, and he had never been able to turn down a pretty face.

Their lessons were always enjoyable. Faleron had always liked Kalasin just a little bit more than became a subject to a princess, and she returned the feelings. He was handsome, and friendly, and always offered very suitable escapes from boredom.

His aunt mentioned the importance of chastity and modesty in Carthaki society, once, in a lesson,and Kalasin rolled her eyes behind an innocent flutter of her fan, as usual.

But that night, curled up in bed with Faleron, and trying to catch her breath after a particularly passionate kiss, she felt a prick of guilt. It startled her more than the feather he tickled the soles of her feet with. She didn't feel _guilty _about things. She never had. Whether it was stealing jam tarts out of the kitchens with Roald, convincing Liam that there was a bloodthirsty monster inside the stables, or sleeping with her cousin, guilt just wasn't one of the emotions that affected her.

Kalasin buried her head in the pillow and groaned.

Faleron noticed, of course (she was being unusually unresponsive to his tickling), and bent to look her in the eyes. "Anything wrong?"

She looked up at him. "Kind of. Sort of. Maybe."

"Well?" he prompted.

She gave him a blank look.

Faleron sighed. "Just because we're bedmates doesn't mean we can't still talk."

Kalasin opened her mouth and considered what she was going to say. "…Nothing."

"Really?"

"I mean…what are we going to do during Midwinter? We'll be at the palace," she blurted.

Faleron blinked. "Well, I suppose that it'll be harder to give you your lessons there. We'll hold off on it for a bit. Besides, I'm going with my knight-master up North for a while."

"Oh." She felt a little disappointed, despite herself. More than a little disappointed. Something he said finally registered. "You're going up north?" she demanded.

He cracked one eye open, and gave her a curious look. "Yes."

"Oh," Kalasin said, again. The feeling inside her was back. "Be, um, be careful."

"Of course," he replied drowsily, and kissed her shoulder.

After he was asleep, Kalasin dressed and left quietly, not wanting to wake him.

They left for the palace the day after that. Kalasin had to ride with his mother, of course, but she found herself looking up the line once in a while, looking for him. Once in a while she would catch a glimpse of his smile, and she looked back down at her saddle, content, although she wasn't particularly sure why.

They didn't see each other the rest of Midwinter. Kalasin discovered that nights without Faleron were startlingly lonely. She spent most of them sleeping restlessly for most of the night, and walking around her room, looking out of the window, toward the brightest star in the sky, for the remaining hours. And the princess wondered how he was doing, and hoped he was safe.

By the end of the winter, Kalasin couldn't sleep at all. She spent nights sitting on the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest, and feeling disgusted with herself. She imagined his kisses, felt his touch against her chilled skin, and heard his gently teasing voice in the shadows.

When she folded herself into bed, she slept and dreamed of every single one of their lessons in such detail that she woke up sweating, aching, holding her pillow close to her chest. Every gasp of breath she took hurt with desire.

_I'm addicted, _Kalasin thought that evening. The thought came to her with such clarity that she was hardly surprised at it. _I'm addicted like someone would be addicted to drink. I'm addicted to…_

The princess could barely think the rest. Addicted to Faleron? Addicted to sex? Both thoughts disgusted her. She was above that.

And, Goddess bless it, it had been a _recent _development. When they first started lessons, she could go a few weeks without it without _craving _it so.

Kalasin realized that she needed to break her addiction, of course. She had to talk to Faleron as soon as he came back. And until then, there would be no more sleep for her. She didn't want to dream of it, to relive every searing detail.

She laughed, a little bitterly, at what her mother and aunts would say if they knew about this.

But Kalasin reckoned that it could be worse. This was only a mild addiction.

It wasn't as if she was falling in love with him, and that realization made her almost want to cry with the sheer gratitude. She had enough problems in her life without loving a man. Without loving _Faleron, _who was most certainly not her betrothed.

She hadn't begun wishing he was, Kalasin rationalized, so that was all right. She could work through this and remain sane.

That night, as Kalasin read one of Roald's old books, she chanced upon a phrase—_the dose makes the poison, _and she started laughing, and couldn't stop.

-


End file.
